


A Return

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Chivalry, F/M, Knights - Freeform, Maidens, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart





	A Return

He comes to her with the clank of armour as she sits by her window seat, long cloth of gold in her lap as she works with needle and thread by the light of moon and candle, crimson stitching, the faint outline of his banner taking shape.  It will take time for her to finish to her satisfaction and tonight...she smiles, tucking the needle into the spiel of thread, folding the banner carefully at the knock upon her door.  Always he knocks, even when the quarters she sews in are, by all rights, his.  She lifts the candle in its holder of gilded gold and makes her way to the door, long skirts rustling as her heart beats faster in trepidation; he has been away for so many months now and she has missed him, has missed his warmth beside her, the sword calluses upon his hands, the out of place boy's smile on his face.  

She opens the latch with her free hand, her heart somewhere in her mouth as her throat tightens because he is here!  How many nights has she woken from her restless slumber, thinking that the night sounds are him?  That a horse in the yard is him returned home, that a window banging against the pane is the door opening and closing?  But now, now he is taking her hand in his, raising it to his lips to kiss it, stubble scratching against her fingertips and if it weren't for the burning candle in the other hand, she would throw herself at him, even if she were to bruise her body and tear her dress on his heavy plate and mail.  

"My love," he greets, voice hoarse and she laughs, pulling her hand from his to set it upon his shoulder, cold metal beneath her palm as she kisses him.  It is not strictly proper but she does not care.  Her dashing knight, home from his war, returned to their chambers as she weaves a new banner for upon his lance.  
  
"I have missed you so dreadfully," she whispers, her lips brushing his, teetering on her tiptoes.  She always forgets, somehow, just how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are, how much bigger he is all over than she.    
  
"And I you, alone at night in my tent," he murmurs in return, cupping her cheeks, thumbs brushing her eyelashes when she closes her eyes, smiling even as tears threaten.  She doesn't know why she always wants to weep when he returns but she does and her hands tremble against her will.  "God it is good to be home, here, with you."  
  
"Come, the hour is late, let us bar the door."  

The candle is taken from her as she sets the locks and latch and allows him to lead her to their chambers where the fire burns giving the room a soft glow and filling it with the scent of fresh pine.  She always wants it to smell fresh and clean when he has been away at war for she is sure that fields of battle cannot smell pleasant, not for one moment.  He blows the candle out once their bedroom door is shut too and she faces it, composing herself, her cheeks flushed, her palms beginning to sweat.  The candle is set down with a thump and she turns, watches him working at the buckles and fastenings of his armour.

"My good knight," she says, approaching him, "allow me.  You are weary from travel, I am sure."  
  
"I could not ask such a thing of you, illustrious lady," he teases, this game they play of names and titles.  
  
"Then it is good then that I offered and you did not ask.  I would bid you to sit," she indicates the small desk - her vanity and its tiny stool would not support the weight of a man in heavy armour.  He follows her command and a thrill races through her that he, a seasoned knight and a grown man, tall and muscled, would listen and obey the words of she, a petite and soft noble lady.  She had learned quickly before they married how to work with armour, how to fasten and unfasten, her older sister and her lady mother teaching her, anything to make life easier.  Marriage is not for love.  She has been lucky, she knows, to have a knight who so firmly follows the code they all swear their lives to when so many others have knights who drink and whore and gamble and beat.  His hands are hand but they are gentle and firm with her.  The armour is heavy as she removes it, setting it on the floor carefully, allowing him to remove his mail shirt, laughing quietly at his pleased sigh once it is gone.  
  
"If you will give me a moment, I fear I stink from the road and from my travels," he smiles as he gathers his armour, arranging it on the stand and she nods, making her way to the fire to stoke it as he disappears into the side room once he is done, water splashing into the basin.  

He takes his time and she opens the dresser drawer, removing one of her bottles of scented oils.  She inhales the fragrance of crushed flowers and mild spice, opening it to daub behind her ears, the insides of her wrists, the hollow of her throat and then, boldly, she draws a line down from her throat, between her breasts, gooseflesh rising as she does so.  The bottle is put away into the drawer and she removes her outer robe and gown, smoothing and folding them until she is down to her white eyelet shift over her smallclothes.  Climbing into bed, she removes the pin holding her hair in place, letting her curls spill down her back as she arranges herself.  He will no doubt be too tired for anything but she wants him to see something beautiful before he goes to sleep the same way she wants him to see something beautiful when he wakes up.

When he returns, his face is clean shaven, his shirt removed, his hair damp at the ends and there is a towel around his shoulders as he finishes drying himself.  He looks up at her and smiles, that long, slow smile that has heat coiling in the pit of her stomach, spreading through her limbs as he drops the towel to the floor and crawls into bed, kicking off his trousers as he does so.

"Come here," he instructs, opening his arms and she goes to him, lays her head upon his chest, his nose in her hair as he breathes in, warm and solid all around him.  "I will always be so lucky to have you to return to, my lady."  
  
"I will always be here, my knight," she replies, tilting her chin up so he finally kisses her, chaste and delicate and she does not want this, she wants his hunger, even as unladylike as that most likely is.  She has learned that in their rooms, in their bed, that she does not have to be the noble lady anymore than he has to be the chivalrous knight, a revelation that had seemed so heady when she had learned of it.  "You are weary."  
  
"I am," his tone is full of regret, he kisses the tip of her nose and then her eyelids, "tomorrow, my love."  
  
"I have waited all these months, waiting for you."  Aching for you, she longs to say but that sounds too much like what a cheap harlot might say and she blushes to even think about it or to voice the things she has done alone in this bed, the things she has had to pray for forgiveness for.  Maybe one day she will tell him, but her toes curl even to think of it.  "I can wait another night."  
  
"Oh I was not planning a night."  She looks up from his chest, watching his eyes struggling to remain open, "You have no plans for the morn, do you?"  
  
"Not that I aware of, no."  She hides her smile in his bare skin, pulling the down covers over them more tightly.  
  
"Then the morrow, as soon as the sun brightens the sky."  
  
"I look forward to it.  Now you must sleep my love."  
  
"And you."

He holds her against him more securely and she goes willingly, pliant in his arms.  The sooner she closes her eyes and falls into the realm of dreams, the sooner it will be morning.


End file.
